


motel macabre

by devonthemenace



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Depressing, Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Drug Use, just read the dang notes, klaus repeatedly speedruns the 5 stages of grief for about 11k words, oh did i forget to mention necromancy? its about necromancy, there are 1 thousand tags i could put on this fic but suffice to say, this literally reads like a manic episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26104618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devonthemenace/pseuds/devonthemenace
Summary: Klaus takes a stab at sobriety in order to resurrect Dave, but some things are better left untouched.
Relationships: Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	motel macabre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tyranno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/gifts).



> This fic got away from me a bit, eh? It was originally supposed to be 4/5k words but even without the prologue or epilogue it is 7k. Sometimes, the story writes itself.
> 
> Basic concept is that this is an AU where after stopping the first apocalypse, life goes back to normal for the Hargreeves kids for a while. During this time, Klaus starts to lose his grip and obsess over resurrecting Dave. In this story Ben crossed over after helping to save the world, since I think his unfinished business would have been to reunite his siblings who he felt responsible for splitting up. 
> 
> Apologies if the ending feels a little rushed- again, this fic is more than double the length it was meant to be. Fixed the weird formatting! Yay!
> 
> Without further ado, here's perhaps the weirdest fic you'll read today. If it makes no sense, blame Netflix.

**PROLOGUE**

The sound of rain that poured onto the manor's hard stone steps echoed through every room. To Klaus' wracked mind, it sounded like radio static; an attempted warning of the oncoming enemy attack, as told by the distant thunder and lightning. His cold and empty bed turned to wet earth beneath him, as his mind spiraled back into the darkness of the jungle.

The screams of the dead muddled in his ears until he couldn't make out a word of it. There had been so many. So much death it felt routine. His dry mouth stung like it was on fire and tasted of blood, his nose was filled with the smell of wet grass and hot metal.

The thunder had started to move in closer, and with every clap Klaus' stiff body trembled in on itself further. He tried to steady his thoughts and pull himself into an easy memory. 

Weakly, he made his way over to the corner of the room towards a simple rosewood record player and a small cedar chest. After rifling through the dusty old records, he lifted out a faded, blue sleeve and wiped it clean. Klaus laid the record down on the spindle, and let the needle drop. The soft crackling of dust on vinyl drifted easily through the thick air.

He stumbled back over to his bed and crashed unceremoniously down onto it. The antique wood gave a startled creak in time with more thunder, as a dreamy melody bubbled to life. He closed his eyes and pictured dark, waxed PVC floors, lining a dim and smoky bar room.

He took in the scene in his mind; a watering hole in Vietnam's A Sầu valley. All around him, soldiers swapped stories from home and mingled with the bar maids working the room. All the girls wore bright, warm smiles to disguise the trauma and rage behind their eyes. Everyone was dead on their feet, play-acting like well-adjusted young people.

Across the table from him sat Dave, who stared absentmindedly into his drink while his cigarette burned, forgotten. His face was haggard beyond its years, the symptoms of exhaustion already settling on all of them. Klaus watched him, as he moved his mouth along to the music from the jukebox behind them.

"Hey," he began, snapping the other man from his dreamy state. "You like this song?" Dave smiled and lowered his gaze a bit, seeming embarrassed to be caught.

"It's corny," he replied, still not looking up from the table. "Reminds me of home."

"You're right." Their eyes finally met, and for a few seconds they just stared at each other. "It is pretty corny."

The two of them both laughed, and then got silent again before Dave spoke, barely loud enough to hear over the music and chatter.

"You're an asshole, Hargreeves." Despite his words, his tone and his smile betrayed fondness. "I'm glad you're here. It's good to have anybody, but I'm just glad it's you."

"We should dance", Klaus offered. "If you like the song."

"You know we can't."

"Speak for yourself," he joked. "I've had lessons."

"Klaus…" Dave's eyes darted around the room, aware all at once of the bar's other patrons.

"They don't care." He pointed to a man in the corner of the room, propped up against the walls and sleeping with a needle stuck into his arm. "You think that guy cares? He's probably dead."

"Oh my god, what?" Dave snapped his head to look.

"I'm kidding. He's breathing, see?"

"Klaus," he repeated, trying and failing to sound more stern.

"Nobody cares," he extended his hand across the table and continued to speak. "The world is on fire. Dance with me."

"The world is on fire," he echoed, then stared for a moment at his outstretched hand. "Not here. Come with me." Dave reached out and grabbed his wrist, then stood and guided him toward an exit at the back of the room.

A particularly bright flash of lighting shook him from his thoughts; the storm was now much closer than it had been and showed no signs of stopping. Thunder boomed, and a tree crashed down to the pavement from somewhere across the road. Whimpers and choked screams erupted from Klaus as he scrambled for cover under his bed. A few clay figurines and a ballpoint pen clattered to the floor, as his wild limbs connected with the furniture around him.

From across the room, he heard the lock of the door click open, followed by the telltale scrape of an old metal latch coming undone. It had been long enough now he'd forgotten he wasn't alone.

"Klaus?" Diego stood in the doorway, a look of concern tinting his otherwise stoic face. "Where are you?"

"Oh, you know" he attempted to force a nonchalant tone before popping his head out from the bed. "Experiencing new perspectives." Diego stared pensively at him before speaking again.

"They really fucked you up over there, huh?" He closed the door behind him as he stepped into the room, and made his way over to sit on the edge of his brother's mattress. "Come on. Get out of there."

After some weak protest, Klaus wiggled gracelessly out from under the wooden frame. He sat down on his bed and gathered up all of his blankets around him, resting his head down onto his knees.

"I'm fine," he mumbled through his teeth. "Really. You can get out now."

"No," his tone was firm, but not harsh or cold. "Don't try and bullshit me."

"Look, I get that you wanna be Mr. Hero and help me out and all. That's great. Really super of you," he reached over and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from his bedside table. He lifted one up to his mouth, and fumbled in his top drawer for a lighter as he spoke again. "But would you please go? I don't need-"

Lightning flashed across the walls. Klaus ripped his hand from the drawer like it was on fire, slamming his wrist harshly into its wooden edges.

"Fuck!" The cigarette tumbled down from his lips as he recoiled in pain. He held his hand tight to his chest, and scowled up at his brother. "Don't say it." They both paused for a long while.

"Fine, I won't say anything. But you," Diego reached out to put a hand on his knee, and he recoiled at first from the touch. "You need to talk to someone. Doesn't even have to be a living someone." He paused for a moment. "What about that guy?"

He was a little surprised that information had stuck, even if it wasn't exactly specific. It seemed like his words usually went right through his siblings' heads.

"Not Dave, I can't…" He paused for a moment, staring blankly at the patterns in the flooring. "I just can't. I've tried."

"There seems to be a lot you think you can't do." At this, Klaus barked out a laugh. 

"You have no idea."

"You're right," Diego made his way back over to the door. "Because you won't talk to anybody." With that, he left the room, readjusting the locks behind him.

The record scratched to a halt. He'd forgotten it was on, it had faded into background noise for him a while ago. The rain was still coming down outside. He cracked his window anyway, as far as it would go before hitting the screws his father had installed in the tracks so many years prior. He wished now he'd removed them for good when he had a chance, but in life the old man had always just replaced them. He threw aside his bedsheets in search of his lost cigarette, and upon finding it, returned his hands to the drawer of the nightstand. Finally, he retrieved a book of matches from inside. Not a lighter, but fire was fire.

As he smoked, he thought. He wondered whether he was even sober enough to conjure anything yet. It had been at least 5 hours since he'd been locked in the bedroom, but past that he had no grasp on the length of his stay. It had been long enough now that he couldn't recall his last clear thought. 

It wasn't exactly like he had the threshold down to a science, either. Not even he knew exactly _how_ clean he had to be- that would require getting there first. He hadn't been completely sober for more than a few days since he was 15. He'd started early, experimenting with whatever pills he could get his hands on around the house. After a while, it was party drugs- GHB and special K to take him out of his thoughts, ecstasy and cocaine to keep him from sleeping. The drugs of choice in Vietnam were LSD and opium- along with whatever prescription amphetamines the commanding officers were pumping into their men that week. His body had seen more substances and chemicals pass through it than a hard plastics factory. That kind of damage took time, and Klaus badly lacked patience.

He took a deep, long drag from his cigarette, and held it in his lungs for a moment before exhaling it through his nose. Smoking rarely gave him a good headrush anymore unless he really tried, but right now he hoped he might be able to knock himself unconscious. Forcing himself to pass out completely usually meant he woke with no memory of his dreams, and he had a feeling they'd be particularly gruesome that night. 

When he woke up, it was too bright and too early. He noticed the smell of coffee from his bedside right away; Diego must have left it there, though there was no sign of him now. Squeezing the sleep from his eyes, he rolled over and reached out for the mug.

He assumed it was black, didn't figure that anyone remembered his usual. It didn't matter. He brought the cup to his lips and gulped away at it- it must have been sitting a while, because it had gone completely cold.

As he went to return it to the table, he noticed a note where it had been sitting.

_Sober up and talk to someone._

"Persistent bastard," Klaus grumbled, as he balled up the paper and tossed it aside. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep for. All he knew was that by now, the chorus of wailing in his ears had grown to one amalgamous sound. He laid back and closed his eyes. He tried to focus, to zero in on a single voice.

_-burns, Klaus my God it burns so badly! Please! Please help me, I-_

He knew Dave must be in there somewhere, on the other side reaching out to him. He had to be. He knew how this spirit stuff worked, unfinished business and everything it entailed. He _had_ been trying to conjure him; every day for months now. So far he could only stay clean long enough to bring on flickering visions that often spoke in garbled tones. The last time, he had managed a version of him with no mouth, no face at all. 

_-zabrał moją skórę! Święte piekło, Klaus, zabrali moje-_

He still had a physical reaction to the sound of his voice. The last words they'd said to each other in life had been pointless; some nonsense about a hole in the ground or a stray bullet. No chance to say goodbye, no chance to say anything. There one moment and gone the next, like Summer.

_-Klaus, you don't know what they did to me. You don't know what they did to all-_

None of these people were anyone close. He reached over to the bedside again, this time for another cigarette and his matches. He hoped the combination of caffeine and nicotine might do _something_ to help him focus his energies, or at least to quiet out some of the background noise. He just needed clarity. Closing his eyes once again, he put everything he could into projecting some kind of signal.

_-lui non mi ha ucciso. Hanno messo via l'uomo sbagliato, Klaus-_

_-ma na paia, maluna o ka lepo ... Klaus, ma na wahi apau-_

_-meaning bolalarim? Klaus, bolalarimni qaerga olib ketishadi-_

_Where did you go, Klaus?_

His eyes snapped open as he sat up, startled by the suddenly familiar sound. 

_Where did you go?_

"I'm here," he didn't feel foolish addressing the voice out loud. He was talking to a ghost, after all. There was unsteadiness to his words and he trembled as he spoke. "I'm right here, Dave." The others had faded out now- not gone, but muffled. 

_I don't understand what's going on._

"You'll be okay, just come over to my voice." This was how it always started. Dave's spirit had become one of many who couldn't cross the mortal boundary. Trapped in between the here and now and the hereafter, many of them didn't know where they were or why they couldn't leave. 

_I feel like I can't see anything._

He screwed his eyes shut for a third time and pictured him standing there. He tried to project his thoughts, to let him know where to go. It had been way too long, he couldn't even remember how to call them over anymore. 

"Please, come here. I'm right here." But he could tell it was useless. His grip wasn't strong enough, already it was slipping away and the wails were growing louder once again.

_Where are you going?_

"I'm sorry," his throat was tight. "Promise I'll be back."

_Please, Klaus. Don't, go. Don't leave again-_

_-dans mes cheveux, Klaus-_

_-don't want you to-_

_-pod mojim noktima-_

_-away._

He quickly grabbed his phone and swiped through the contacts in frustration. If he was going to try any proper conjuring, any _really good_ séance stuff, he'd need to get out of this room and bring back supplies. He considered calling Diego, but he knew there was no way he would unlock the door. Five probably wouldn't care enough to answer, if he even noticed the ring. He needed someone who might listen, who might actually understand.

He needed Vanya.

He held the phone to his ear and listened for the dial tone. The repetition was almost soothing.

"Hello, Klaus?" She sounded confused to be getting a call from him, especially from another room in the house.

" _Hey_ ," he drew this out for a bit too long. "Small favour to ask."

"Nope," she shot back. "I know I'm not supposed to let you out."

"C'mon, I need to go to the craft store." Dead air from the other line. " _Not_ for glue to sniff."

"I wasn't thinking that. I am now." He pressed a closed fist to his forehead in frustration.

"Please. I just need to conjure someone. White candles! You've seen movies!" His sister sighed from behind the microphone, and paused.

"White candles?" She asked. "Does that actually work?"

"To be honest," he began, "I'm not exactly sure. Usually they sort of just… Conjure themselves."

"But… This one won't?"

"No, I've tried." While he waited for a response, he could hear his sister tapping her fingernails on the countertop; an old habit that meant she was thinking.

"How about," she offered, "if you stay in there, and I bring everything up to you?" This was an aggravating ultimatum, but there didn't seem to be many other options.

"Not exactly what I had in mind, but I'm desperate."

"Right, wait there. I'll be back." She hung up without saying goodbye. Not out of any malicious intent, more than likely because of her tendency to lose herself the second she was presented a task.

In all, it didn't take her much longer than 20 minutes to leave and return with a small, brown paper bag. She had brought up the candles, along with some incense, an apple, and a heavy, leatherbound book.

"It's from dad's office," she'd explained. "I figured you could use it. Just be careful." She meant the book, of course, and didn't mention the apple. He'd assumed that was just for him. His sister turned and left, and glanced at the front cover. It was embossed with white text; 

_METHODOLOGY AND ANALYSIS - Experiment #4._

He was as comforted as he was unsettled. His father had never been particularly warm or loving, but that coldness had at least been consistent. There wasn't much else in life Klaus could be certain of. He sat down in the middle of the floor with a small _thud_ , and spread the old log open in his lap. The first few pages were dull, a general introduction and hypothesis that read more like a chemistry report than anything else. As he flipped through the rest, he scanned his eyes over the words to see if he could spot anything that might be of use right now.

The pages of the book were filled with tiny, sprawling text. Diagrams and illustrations were scattered sparsely throughout, but the whole thing served mostly as a cold, disconnected dressing down of events. Phrases like _"qualitative data"_ and _"mitigating factors"_ made up a good chunk of the content- standard fare for an academic research paper, not exactly how you might expect a father to write about his children. In fact, quite a lot of the information was far less than parental. The journal told a story Klaus had long since forced from his memory; repressed, fragmented images of what must have been someone else's life. His experiment had started off simply enough, in the form of brief conversational sessions. Reginald would sit him in a hard plastic chair under flickering fluorescents and ask him questions about the voices in his head.

Soon, however, the focus was put increasingly on testing the limits of these unwelcome voices. Controlling them or keeping them at bay never seemed to be a priority; it never even felt like an acceptable outcome. On paper, it all escalated very quickly. One entry saw him trying to talk back to the voices out loud, giving them instructions and gathering information from them about the other side. This went on for a few more days, before taking a sharp turn toward prolonged isolation and confinement. Repeatedly, he was thrown into darkened cellars, sealed inside morgues, locked in coffins, and tied down to tables in pitch black rooms.

Then, the real torture started. While the experiment had started off psychological, before long it morphed into a twisted kind of physical endurance test. The data seemed to suggest that an element of tangible danger or bodily harm was a key factor in Klaus' abilities to reach out to the dead. The higher his levels of stress and adrenaline rose, the stronger his connection was to the energies of spirits. Apparently, the easiest way to achieve this result was to force him into increasingly dangerous, terrifying and harmful scenarios until he could improve his skills. No possible avenue of torment was ignored. Waterboarding, flogging, electric shock treatment and sensory overstimulation were among his father's preferred methods, though it occasionally got even more outlandish. One page of the journal detailed a session where Klaus was locked inside a room where a box of hungry rats had been released to corner him. Another told of a week-long period when he had been left alone inside of a completely empty room, given no food and just enough water to survive dehydration.

Perhaps less concerning- though much more shocking to him- was the consistent mention of additional abilities. He'd always been told he wasn't reaching his "full potential", but he'd just assumed that referred to his perceived inability to do much of anything. According to this journal, however, he had a whole litany of skills he had absolutely no conscious awareness of. Things like telekinesis, spiritual possession, and the apparent ability to raise the dead.

He closed the book and tossed it aside. The onslaught of new information was a lot to process. One thing was very clear, however. He seemed to only be able to use his powers to the full extent when he was in pain or in danger.

Klaus had to take a long moment to pause and reflect on what that said about him, as a person. This rabbithole went deeper than he hoped it would, but none of it surprised him. He wasn't quite sure what it did. How was he supposed to feel, to find out he'd never really known himself? The word _betrayed_ came to mind, but that would imply there was a level of trust to be broken in the first place. No, if he had to boil it down to one word, he would probably say he felt exhausted.

He meandered back over to the bed, to grab the bundle of incense sticks, his book of matches, and the coffee mug from the bedside table. The sticks had a heavy but astringent smell, warmed by earthy undertones of wood and leather. They were familiar to him, the same aroma that lingered outside the steps of the synagogue. He picked one out, then struck a match and held the flame under one end. A warm glow started from its tip- cherry red at first, then orange, and eventually bright yellow. Plumes of thick, sweet-smelling smoke rose from the burning incense as he placed it down atop the coffee mug.

Klaus took a deep breath and gathered up the candles into a small circle in front of him. As he lit them, he tried to picture Dave in his mind. He took in all the sensations around him; the amber flicker of the flames, the thick scent of burning balsam, and the persistent hum of the manor's outdated wiring.

Grabbing a candle from the floor, he rolled up one sleeve and poured its molten contents out onto his skin.

**i**

So far, in his pursuit of trying to bring back Dave, Klaus had slowly destroyed his own body and mind. Every day he employed new and more violent tactics against himself. The physical torment in combination with his newfound and jarring sobriety made for an almost unbearable mix. He knew this was exactly what he needed. Diego had come to unlock his room after just a few days, and he'd left home without returning. This was partially out of a desire to keep his siblings out of it. They certainly wouldn't have understood his methods, and would probably try to stage (another) intervention if they caught wind of what he was doing. Mainly, however, this decision was out of necessity. He wasn't exactly an expert, but it seemed plausible that he would need some kind of access or at least proximity to Dave's body. Getting to Dallas on a whim without a car or a licence and with barely any money wasn't easy, but hitchhiking did add a significant new element of danger to the equation.

It was difficult at first to stay off drugs left so freely to his own devices. As the days and weeks went by, though, he became addicted in a new sense to the intense things he was feeling and experiencing. Pain and adrenaline were his replacement narcotics for now. The whole while, he imagined the moment he could successfully bring Dave back to life and hop right back on pills. He worried he had changed too much without them. It was a serious concern of his that his personality was entirely unacceptable without chemical alteration.

By the time he arrived in Dallas, he was drained, bruised, and hollowed out beyond recognition. What little food he'd managed to steal from truck stops along the way had barely been enough for a child to survive on, let alone enough to fuel a grown, badly wounded man. He was bordering on delirium. It was getting harder and harder with every passing minute to tell which sounds were genuine calls from the dead and which were hunger induced hallucinations.

He used some of the money he had so desperately avoided spending on a motel room for the foreseeable future. If there was anything he needed, it was a safe place to do his thing without outside interruption or concern. The hunger would have to be dealt with as well- he was starting to get too weak and unfocused to even be of use to himself. He hobbled down to the moth-swarmed vending machine outside the motel and grabbed a small stockpile of junk food. It wasn't nutritious by any means, but it was calorie-dense and at least better than nicotine and stale air.

Dave had been showing up in his head more and more- lately he'd even been physically appearing and sticking around for a while like Ben had done before he crossed over. It was probably just because of the hunger that he wasn't there now. Klaus unwrapped a Fig Newton and crushed it gracelessly into his open mouth. His plan for the rest of the night was to get to sleep as fast as possible after eating; he hoped that by the time he woke up, Dave would be there in the room with him.

Laying in the motel bed, he stared as the ceiling fan spun in aimless circles around itself. The repetitive motion was calming- like counting sheep. At the same point in every turn, the fan slowed just slightly; a sign that its old motor was finally on the way to giving out. He closed his eyes and listened to the way it hummed above him, drifting away into a fitful sleep.

In the morning, he was comforted to feel a presence laying beside him before he opened his eyes. He turned his head to look, and saw his partner looking back at him.

"Good morning," he rattled off, groggy. "You been staring at me all night?" Dave fought a smile.

"I don't need to sleep," he replied.

"You should've said it was because I'm your _dream man_." The larger man pulled a face of mock disgust, fighting the tender smile that played at the corner of his lips.

"Oh, put a sock in it." He reached out, giving his bed-mate's shoulder a playful shove. In response, Klaus stopped breathing for a moment.

"You touched me," he pointed out.

"Yeah," he held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. "People do that."

"Ghosts don't." They both paused, and before long broke out into fits of joyous laughter. The two men laid together poking and prodding at each other's bodies- peppering kisses across each other' faces. Dave ran his fingers through Klaus' dark, wild curls, tugging on them so that they sprung back into his eyes. Though to Klaus it had only been a few months, the real truth was that they'd been physically separated here in this timeline for half a century. Almost as if he'd sent over the thought, Dave spoke again.

"I've missed you," he said earnestly. "I've missed you so fucking badly." As far as he was aware, no one had ever missed him before. Usually, he was lucky if people noticed he was gone.

"I've missed you, too", he answered immediately.

"And food. I've missed food." Laughter bubbled up between them again, just briefly this time. "I won't even say what I'd do for some Jolly John's."

He paused. He'd almost forgotten the thing he'd been worried about. The world had grown and changed since 1969, and the Dallas they were in right now was only technically the same landmass as the old one. Most of the places and people Dave had known and loved in his life were now long gone or changed completely. He had no idea whether his family was still alive, if their old house was still standing, or in fact how many parts of his life might now be nothing but memory.

"Um, yeah. We can try and get some." Klaus' words didn't seem to fool anyone, especially not anyone he was linked metaphysically to.

"But we can't actually do it, can we?" He sat up in the bed. "That's okay. I don't need a burger if I've got you."

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"I don't have a very high bar to meet here, do I?" He hadn't noticed before, but somehow in this light, Dave looked slightly older now. He couldn't be sure if this was just because his memory was faulty, or because purgatory had managed to age him.

"What was it like? In there?"

"Where, on the other side?"

"No," he joked. "At Jolly John's." That earned him a chuckle.

"So they did close it down, the bastards."

"Not exactly. It's a _Dogs 'N' Suds_ now."

"Still," shook his head. As much as he was putting on an air of humour, he seemed genuinely upset by this information. "It's no John's. We used to all pile into the truck and drive through there after school days. The waitresses always told you to 'have a Jolly day' when they rolled out your food. It's not like they can tell you to have a _sudsy_ day."

" _Bubbeleh_ ," he called out affectionately. "The afterlife?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry." Dave got a bit quiet, and let out a deep sigh from down in his stomach. "It was fine, y'know? It was what it was. It's like war; I got used to it."

This statement confused him a bit. He often forgot that Dave had been in active service for years before they'd even known each other. He wasn't a soldier by circumstance like Klaus, but by design. He had never gotten used to any aspects of the battlefield besides his company. Sure, he coped chemically, but he never really adjusted. None of it was ever normal.

"Right," he pretended he understood, deciding that train of thought was better left alone for now.

"How long have I be in there for, anyway?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Well," he started with a smile. "It couldn't possibly be as long as it feels. You still look like you did the day I met you."

It was then that he remembered his other big dilemma. There were some details he just hadn't known how to explain. So he never did. Dave must have been aware of his supernatural abilities- he _was_ the ghost he'd been conjuring, after all. But time travel? That had seemed too convoluted and problematic to make it into their conversations. People had difficulty committing to long-distance relationships; he wasn't ready to open Pandora's box of inter-dimensional, cross-timeline rejection. Still, here it was right in his face. Eventually, if he was going to bring him back, he'd go outside and notice how much was different. How could he possibly explain five decades worth of change without revealing that much time had actually passed? It would be impossible to convince him that this- the way Klaus had remained untouched while the world around him shifted entirely- was somehow normal.

"I don't know how to tell you." That was true, and an easy enough start.

"Then don't think," Dave reached out and grabbed his hand. "Just say what comes out."

"I'm not worried I'll say the wrong thing," he explained. "I just literally don't know how to explain this all to you. You'll think I'm fucking crazy."

"I don't think that matters anymore. I should be dead, remember?"

"Well," the smaller man started. "You are dead. You're not _not_ dead. You're just… corporeal. Physically tangible. You could…" He stopped himself, but kept going. "You could pop away any second. You know that, right?"

"I'll let you know before I do, then. For now," his voice became slightly upset. "I just want to know where I am. Or when I am. Anything, please."

Klaus sat up and pressed his back into the bed's cold, wooden headboard. He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. He'd requested a room he could smoke in, and despite the red signage displayed on the walls that said otherwise, the receptionist had told him he could light up pretty much anything pretty much anywhere. He offered one to Dave, which he didn't accept. He probably wasn't sure he could actually hold it.

"What year do you think it is?"

"What year did I die, again?"

"It was '69." There was a lengthy silence as his partner attempted to extrapolate exactly how long he'd spent trapped between worlds. He was thankful for the time to think of what he might say next. He scoured his brain for the right words, but he knew there weren't any. It worried him to think of how he might react.

"I think it's 1974." Klaus was silent. "1975?"

"No," his voice was shaky, barely audible. He cleared his throat and tried to make the next part come out clearer. "A bit longer than that." Dave looked a bit surprised to hear this, but not too nonplussed.

"It's not already the '80s, is it?" A humourless laugh.

"Technically, no."

"Then just tell me. Please, I'm so sick of not knowing." The whirring of the ceiling fan was the only sound in the room for a long time.

"It's 2023." As quickly as it was broken, silence once again fell on the motel. The air was so tense it confined them to one spot. Neither could move a muscle, from fear and shock respectively.

"No," Dave finally supplied. "You can't be serious. That's more than 50 years."

"I mean it. I promise."

"No you don't. How could you say that? Look at your face, Klaus. You look 35." This was starting to go about as well as he'd expected. 

"Actually, I'm 34." Humour was the only coping mechanism he had left, now.

"This isn't funny." He'd seen Dave this upset before, but it had never been because of him. "Tell me what's really going on." He sighed and tried his best to explain himself.

"I don't know how to explain it, okay? These people had this machine, and I…"

"You what? You travelled back in time?"

"More or less."

"I don't believe that. I don't believe you."

"You're dead, remember?" He echoed his earlier remarks. "Did you believe in ghosts before you became one?" For a third time, they fell silent.

"Did you… I mean, did you keep me here all this time just so you could bring me back?"

"I…" Klaus started to answer, but found that he couldn't. "I don't think so." He saw that Dave's form was starting to flicker out at the edges. Any minute now, he'd be gone and Klaus would have to dig and tear at himself to call him back again.

"My parents are dead," he said bluntly. "My brother probably has kids I've never met." Klaus had nothing to say. He couldn't deny any of it, and it was only in this moment that he had any scale of his selfishness. Had he really been the reason Dave couldn't pass on? Had his desires to bring him back somehow kept him in limbo? Even now that he was able to be with the living again, was it worth losing absolutely everything? "I don't even think I'm angry _at you_. But I am angry."

"You have a right to be." A gross understatement.

"I want to know if anything is the same," he blurted out.

"Some of it's better," he replied. "The war is over. Everything is integrated. People hate us less. But…"

"But some of it's worse."

"Maybe worse. Maybe just different. I can't tell if they hate us less or just hate each other more. Everybody seems to hate each other nowadays. A lot of people are struggling." Dave flashed a smile, but it was touched with cynicism.

"I thought you said it was different," he joked.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted you to be happy."

"You're sweet, Klaus." He took a drag from his cigarette. "Like I said, I'm not angry at _you_." With this, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss into the corner of his mouth. Then, he was gone.

Now alone once again, Klaus buried his face in his pillow and screamed.

**ii**

Dave had told him once, while he was still alive, that he planned to be buried in the Greenwood Cemetery in Dallas. Something about wanting to be buried in the same place as a Texas Ranger. His remains would have been sent home to his parents, and Klaus could only hope they had respected his wish to come here.

He wasn't sure exactly what his plan was. He was sure he must have looked demented to anyone that may have seen him. It was no longer raining, but he was still dripping wet from his walk. He was wandering aimlessly through the graveyard trying to find Dave's headstone, bleeding from his cut lip and shaking in the cold of night. It wasn't even clear to him what he would do once he found it. Digging up the casket would probably prove difficult when the dirt was so wet. Closing his eyes, he tried to see if his body might call out in any way. He stumbled for a while in no particular direction.

After about 10 minutes, he came upon a large marble slab, marked with a Magen David and a brief inscription.

_פינ_

_DAVID KATZ_

_U.S. ARMY_

_VIETNAM_

_תנצבי ה_

_MAR. 12, 1937_

_MAY 18, 1969_

_DIED FOR OUR COUNTRY_

_ON HAMBURGER HILL_

It seemed like a shame that this was all they had boiled him down to. A Jewish soldier, killed in battle. He wondered briefly what his family might put on his own headstone, and decided it was best not to think about. He said a quick blessing over the patch of dirt; he wasn't a man of strong faith, but he tried to have at least some respect and decorum. Then, he pulled a small gardening spade from inside the suitcase he had dragged along with him. It may not have been the most effective tool for the job, but it was the only thing he could manage to find _and_ afford. Over the next three hours or so, he set about frantically digging with the mini shovel. With every inch further he made it into the ground, he became more and more desperate to get to the bottom. Eventually, he spotted a patch of oak wood, and began pitching dirt away from it wildly with his hands, aching and covered in his own dried blood.

The brass lock on the casket had rusted and dilapidated years ago; opening the thing was as easy as kicking it loose with the heel of his boot. He was strangely unphased by the sight of his lover's skeleton peering back at him. By this point he had grown so unhinged and disoriented that nothing at all seemed to bother him.

Had he looked slightly less suspicious, he may have had an easier time getting the bones back to his motel. He couldn't leave him outside, he assumed the process of bringing him back could take as long as several days. What he'd managed to glean from the confusing new-age texts at the public library told him that the longer someone had been dead, the longer a resurrection would take. He'd actually found quite a few helpful books, although he couldn't be sure what was viable information and what were the crackpot ramblings of charlatans. Instinct had something to do with it. Uncovering the details of his previous training seemed to be bringing some of his memory back to him, which helped him discern things he knew were and were not possible.

Under the cover of night, he hurried down backroads and side streets; all the while lugging a green plastic case full of human bones. When he finally reached the motel, he cleaned himself off before doing anything else. He disinfected his hands, which were now covered in tiny lacerations and caked in dirt, and ran a wet towel over his sweaty, grit coated face. Gently unzipping the suitcase, he inspected its contents to ensure the remains hadn't been damaged along the way. Once he was satisfied, he carefully lifted the crumpled skeleton and set him down into the empty, stained bathtub. One by one, he set his candles down around its perimeter. He placed a lit stick of incense on the edge of the sink, pulled his swiss army knife from his pocket, and finally produced a large, black, hardcover book from the suitcase. In gold foil lettering, its front cover read _FORBIDDEN RITES AND RITUALS OF THE OCCULT_. There was no author listed, but somehow that made him trust its legitimacy more.

It didn't take long for him to flip through and find the spot he needed. He had made a dog-ear in the top corner where the chapter on necromancy started. For a moment, he was entertained imagining the next reader to pick up the book noticing the marking and fearing why it had been made. 

Flicking open the swiss army knife, he dragged it slowly across the fleshy parts of his hand. He screwed his eyes shut and focused on the painful feeling. The now bloodied knife clattered to the floor, leaving red splatters in its wake. Klaus called out in his mind.

 _Is that me?_ Dave asked from behind his eyes.

"Kind of, yeah. It's your bones."

_Geez._

"Don't worry. I won't, if you don't want."

_And by that, you mean… ?_

"I can put you back in."

_In there?_

"Not exactly. You'll have your skin. Only if you want it."

_Would it even work?_

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But I think so."

_And what if it doesn't?_

"Then you'd still be dead."

Dave stopped responding for a while, mulling over his options. If he said no, he might stay in purgatory forever, wondering what would have happened. If he said yes, he might not be able to readjust. He might have a horrible time back on Earth and ruin all the good memories he had of his first lifetime. Still, being able to make physical contact after so long had felt amazing. He had spent years on the other side agonizing over never being able to touch someone again. But this wasn't his world anymore. He hadn't even stepped foot outside yet and already he was overwhelmed with how much had changed around him. 

_What if I die again? Will I come back here, or is that just… it?_

"That's it," Klaus responded. "You only get one chance to try and come back." Dave considered that this might be his best option. If he agreed, he was guaranteed freedom from limbo. Being briefly able to return reminded him just how horrible his present state of affairs was.

 _One condition_ , he said matter-of-factly. _And it's a big one._

"I just dug up your casket. There isn't much I won't do anymore."

 _If I change my mind- if I can't make it out there- you have to promise me you won't make me stay. But you can't leave, either._ Klaus sighed, he understood. He knew that Dave knew how recklessly he treated his own life.

"I just want you to be happy," he repeated. "And I miss you more than anything. I see your face in the trees."

_Promise me you'll stay, even if I go again._

"I'll stay. I promise."

_Okay then._

"Okay?"

_Do it._

**iii**

The ritual itself had been short, and once he had started he lost contact with Dave. He wondered if he had done something wrong, accidentally banished him to damnation or something else horrible. He went back into the bathroom to check on the remains in the tub every 20 minutes, seeing if anything was changing. After about 3 hours, he noticed small, red lines forming across the bones. Eventually, Klaus realised that he was watching a human body physically rebuild itself, strand by strand. By the first morning afterwards, there were little patches of connective tissue and visceral fat creeping toward each other, trying to cover his exposed skeleton. He could look down into the cavity of his chest and see a small, quivering heart growing there.

The whole process took about as long as he'd expected, which was four days. The smell was the most surprising thing, because there hadn't been one at all. He expected some putrid, noxious stench like the way death smelled. Instead, he found that mostly, it was quite tidy.

The second he'd woken up in his body again, Dave screamed. Klaus, not expecting anything for another few hours, had crashed out of his bed and rocketed toward the bathtub. Sitting up and staring in awe at his own hands, was his newly revived partner.

"Holy shit," he muttered. "I actually did it." He made his way over to the other man, who at first seemed startled by the presence of someone else.

"Klaus?" His voice was scratchy, but otherwise the same.

"Hey there," he managed, shaking. He had no idea what to say. "Do you… remember anything?"

"I'm alive," Dave stated simply. "You brought me back to life." He laughed almost maniacally and ran his hands up and down his own arms.

"Yeah," he sighed, relieved he didn't wake up confused and afraid. He'd read sometimes, people had a tendency toward violence when they first got back. "How do you feel?"

"Physically," he grinned. "Like shit. My stomach hurts. I have a stomach." Giddiness oozed from all his words. His face looked cold and pallid, but the colour was slowly returning to it. "To be honest, I think I need to lay down."

Klaus lifted Dave's weak, newly rebuilt body and carried him over to bed. He sunk into it immediately, it wasn't hard to tell how long it had been since he'd laid anywhere comfortable. Even before he'd spent half a century cramped inside a coffin, he'd endured 6 years of active military service. Comfort was something he was often denied, and even in the cheap, lumpy Super 8 mattress he looked blissfully cozy.

The two of them both got comfortable under the blankets, and spent a few minutes laying there just looking at each other. After so long and so many failed attempts, it was a very surreal sight. Stranger, even, than it had been watching his blood vessels grow back.

Still, he couldn't help but feel a great sense of relief and security. There would be no more planning. No more self-torture, no more scanning his thoughts for familiar voices, no more mission. For what felt like the first time in his life, Klaus had done exactly what he set out to do. His bed-mate's eyes were slowly drooping closed across from him. He watched as his breathing started to slow, reveling in the way he could see the veins pulsate in his throat along to his heartbeat. He, too, closed his eyes and let himself drift to sleep.

In the morning when he woke up, his partner was standing in the corner of the room, unmoving and facing the wall.

"Dave?" He called out to him, and he looked right away.

"Morning," he replied, as he turned from the corner and made his way toward the bed.

"What were you doing, bub?" He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and noticed that the other man's skin colour had still not returned.

"Looking at a spider's web," Dave explained. "I never really gave them enough attention the first time around." Klaus was confused, but smiled anyway. 

"Well, what do you want to do on your first day back? We could get some breakfast."

"Actually," he started. "I tried eating already. I don't think I can digest yet."

"Oh. What else did you do already?"

"I tried to watch the sunrise."

"But you didn't?" His smile wavered.

"I'm not used to the light yet. It really burned my eyes… and my skin." He wondered whether that might get better, or worse over time.

"So, we'll stay in and watch TV today. Did you know they're all in colour now?"

"No way," he balked. "All of them?"

"Yep," Klaus supplied. "And you won't believe how clear the image is. You can see everybody's freckles." He patted the space beside him.

Dave made his way over to the bed and sat down. When the wall-mounted unit clicked to life, he looked on in awe.

"That's the television? I thought it was an empty picture frame. How did you do that from here?"

"It's called a flatscreen," he mentioned. "Most of them look like that now." He hadn't even thought to mention that part. Quickly, he was beginning to realise just how much really had changed in the world since Vietnam. "And this is the remote control. Anything the TV can do, you do it with this."

"Wow. So you can click through channels from here?" He had forgotten so quickly how useless these machines used to be.

"Do you remember _TV Guide_? Watch this." The screen filled with blue as he pulled up the programming schedule. He handed Dave the remote, and he clicked through with increasing interest.

"How many channels _are_ there?"

"This one only goes to 500." He realised right after he said it that _only_ was going to be a word that grabbed his attention.

" _Only_?" There it was. "Okay… Well, which one's the best?" Klaus chuckled a bit at this.

"Here, I have an idea." He grabbed the remote, and pointed it toward the set. "This," he said, as the colours flipped on screen again. "Is the History Channel." They watched for a moment.

"Is this history?"

"No," he explained. "It's the History Channel."

"So, this didn't happen?"

"No," he repeated. "It's a reality show. They're just making swords."

"What's a reality show?"

"Could you just watch? Please?" Again, they just sat in silence for a few minutes.

"I don't want to watch this," he complained. "Do they still make _Hogan's Heroes_?"

"Not for a long time."

"Damn," like Jolly John's before, he seemed to be deeply upset by this small issue. "Never mind. I'll just lay here for a while, then."

No one spoke while the TV played on to a vacant audience.

**iv**

When night fell, they decided to take a chance on going outside. With the harsh sunlight gone, the two of them were free to wander through the unsuspecting streets of Dallas. The city's lights were larger than life against the pitch black sky, glowing like a pit of embers. He'd never been to Texas before, and hadn't been able to really appreciate its aesthetic beauty in his erratic state. Now that he was feeling somewhat better, and had taken some time to eat and sleep, he couldn't keep his eyes off it. He turned to glance at Dave.

Dave's face looked blank and confused as he looked out into the busy streets. He seemed uncomfortable with the amount of noise, light, and traffic surrounding them. Klaus wasn't sure if this was a result of his time as a soldier, or because the huge boom in the city's population over the last 5 decades wasn't what he'd remembered.

"Something wrong?" Though he knew there must have been.

"Did something happen to the stars?" This caught him off guard. He'd just assumed, when they'd been together in the valley, it was their rural setting that made the night sky look so much brighter. He realised now that it was time. Light pollution had been a problem since humans learned to use electricity, but even in the short time since 1963- the last time Dave had seen the city- the skyline of Dallas had become at least five times as bright.

"No," he started. "They're still up there. We just can't see them anymore." This fact made him sad. It wasn't something he often thought about; he was never used to seeing them anyway. His partner looked puzzled, so he continued.

"It's because of all the lights. They're so bright they drown out the sky."

"You mean these," he pointed toward a large purple building in the distance, covered from top to bottom in strips of LEDs. "Ugly things? We got rid of the stars for these?"

"Yep," he confirmed. "Those ugly things."

"It looks like we got rid of a lot of stuff. I hardly see any trees. You didn't tell me about any of that."

"To be honest," he explained, "I didn't really realise. I'm _from_ this time. All this stuff is… I don't know. It's normal for me."

"It's not normal for me."

They walked in silence for a few blocks. The mood had taken a sombre turn. Every time he looked over, he could see the upset and bewilderment in Dave's eyes. He looked around, desperate for a distraction. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a brightly lit all-you-can-eat buffet. He noted that neither of them had eaten much that day, and decided to point the restaurant out.

"Hey, bub?" The other man turned to look, as he pointed toward the building. "You hungry?" His eyes grew wide. He could only say one word.

"Pancho's?" Klaus turned to read the sign.

"That's what it says." 

"Pancho's." Clearly, this was somewhere he remembered. Tears welled in his eyes, and he tried to blink them away. He looked so happy to finally see something he recognised. He hadn't felt this way when he went back in time. That probably said something about the state of his life; how unbothered he was by throwing it all away. He didn't really have connections past this one, not besides his siblings back home. Even with them, things were tenuous. Letting other people into his mind was, at times, as difficult for him as letting himself out of it.

The interior of the buffet was a gaudy azure, with red brick sparsely lining _just some_ areas of the room. Oversized chandeliers hung low above all the booths and tables, which were also astonishingly too big. Some of the booths- though, he noted, not all- were a putrid shade of deep, pea green. He noticed the other patrons were eating off plastic blue trays; each a slightly different hue, and none of them quite the same colour as the large, bright wall. He held his tongue. This was one of the only things in the day so far that had made his partner happy, even if it was the ugliest thing he'd ever seen. Maybe they'd done a recent and unfortunate remodel.

"Man," Dave mused. "It's exactly how I remember it." So much for that notion, then.

"Well," he said, already overstimulated from the onslaught of bright and differing tones, "it certainly is something to look at."

"It's just how we decorate in Texas," he explained. His spirits seemed lifted instantly, though his own were on the decline.

A waitress came and showed them to their booth (lucky them- one of the green ones), and they ordered drinks. Once she walked away from the table, the two made their way over to the warming trays of food at the back of the restaurant. This, he noted, was where the mismatched plates had come from. The spread wasn't what Klaus was used to eating back home. Most of it was indiscriminately coated in cheese, salsa, or a combination of both. He couldn't quite tell the dishes apart, but he wasn't necessarily picky either. Watching as Dave scooped out mammoth portions of the caloric mess onto his plate, he tried to follow suit. By the time they were done, his own plate was covered in about four times less food.

"You really are hungry, huh?"

"I haven't eaten in 54 years", he noted. This was a fair enough statement, so he left it alone and followed him back to the table.

They sat and spoke as they ate, finding less and less to talk about that wouldn't cause any upset or contention. It seemed like every time Klaus mentioned anything, he had to explain what he was talking about. He felt selfish for not really wanting to put up with it, but he couldn't lie to himself about it either. The food wasn't bad, though it wasn't necessarily anything special. Most of it tasted similar to him, or at least had similar ingredients. His dinner date didn't seem to mind. He shoved forkful after forkful of the cheesy stuff into his mouth, barely chewing at all before going in for another bite. By the end of the night, he'd eaten 3 plates of that size.

The walk back to the motel was quiet. Dave seemed too full to speak, and Klaus was feeling strangely uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what part of the change in their circumstance had led to the uneasy tension that was seeming to come and go between them. He'd been trying his best to ignore it, but something in the pit of his stomach told him something wasn't right. Perhaps it was because they no longer had the pressure of war to bond them, or the result of almost a whole lifetime apart. Maybe it was because Dave had been trying and failing not to mourn all over again for his lost life all day. Maybe Klaus had changed too much without the drugs. It could have been all those things, or nothing at all. All he knew was that the reality of their situation was starting to set in.

For one thing, his home was in New York. He didn't mind leaving it behind, but he needed to go somewhere. A motel would only do for so many nights until they ran out of money, and neither of them had a backup plan here in Dallas. He could try to get a job, but not fast enough to get into a rental. Especially not with his lengthy criminal record. He could try asking his siblings for a bailout, but that would mean explaining his situation.

And what if the side effects- the light sensitivity, the voracious appetite, the strange behaviour- what if these things were permanent? Was he even comfortable being responsible for those things? It had been a mutual decision, but had it really? After all, he'd been persuasive. And he dug up his bones _before_ he asked.

They carried on in quiet uncertainty for the rest of their walk.

**v**

  
  


When they walked through the door of their one bedroom suite, the air was uncomfortable. Neither of them had spoken still since the restaurant. Klaus wondered what Dave was thinking about. As the night had gone on, he'd been finding it harder and harder to guess how he would act and what he would say. Their change in setting had, little by little, thrown familiarity out the window.

He watched as Dave pulled up a hard wooden chair to the window and drew back the curtain. He sat, and stared out into the black sky above him. For once, it was him who started talking.

"Y'know," he began, "I used to go there with my family. To Pancho's." He swallowed a lump of sadness in his throat.

"Hmm." A noise of acknowledgement to prove he was listening.

"It used to be one of my favourite places in the world." There was an unspoken double-meaning behind that _used to be_ ; it felt like it carried physical weight. "But that was the first time I ever went in there without them."

Once again, Klaus was confused by this sentiment. Dave had been 26 when he deployed to Vietnam, and still dining out with his family. His own hadn't sat for a proper meal together in almost a decade.

"When I thought I was coming back," he continued, still not taking his eyes off the sky. "I thought they would be here, too."

"I can try to conjure them for you," he offered.

"Why, so I can see how they looked when they were dying?" He sighed. "I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help me."

"Just tell me what I can do." A bitter laugh left his partner.

"Nothing. You could've done nothing in the first place."

Dave turned toward him, and seemed especially strange. His skin was dripping with sweat, and it had started turning grey. A low churn was sounding repeatedly in his stomach, loud enough to hear across the room. He grew even more irritable.

"I know," Klaus' voice trembled. "I thought this would be better."

"Better for who?" He asked earnestly, though he knew the answer. "Was it even true?"

"What?"

"All that stuff," he explained, "about leaving purgatory. Was it even true?"

"Of course," which was most of the truth.

"But you knew. You knew it would convince me, even if I didn't want to."

This, too, was only most of the truth. He knew what limbo was like- he'd heard about how horrible it was a million times.

"If this didn't work, I thought that would be worth it."

"I could've crossed over another way."

"You're right," he had nothing left to say. "You could have. I didn't want you to." Suddenly, Dave lurched forward and dry heaved. "Are you okay?"

"I'm doing amazing," he replied dryly, then gagged again. "I'm sorry. I just can't…" For a third time, he clutched at his gurgling stomach and heaved. "I can't understand this."

Suddenly, his jaw unhinged. A massive stream of viscous, black slime shot violently from his mouth and onto the motel carpet. Klaus jumped back in horror, obviously terrified by the alarming sight.

"What the hell is that?" He exclaimed. "I mean, Jesus Christ!" There was no time for an answer before more of the vile, viscous liquid flowed forth. Now it was coming from his nose as well as his mouth.

"I don't…" Another pause, another burst. "Don't think I should eat." When he'd mentioned earlier that he _didn't think he could digest yet_ , he didn't explain that this is what he meant.

"Then why did you eat so much?" The larger man fell to his knees in the puddle of his own toxic bile and sobbed. He shook and cried for a while, and neither of them moved from their respective places. Once the fit had settled, he stood and attempted to speak.

"I just wanted this to be fucking normal," he spat. "I was supposed to get my life back! Get my body back! I can't even go outside. I don't recognise anything or anyone." He started to cry again, but pressed on. "You're the only thing I have and we can't even do anything together anymore. I can't take you to dinner or to the beach. I can't… I can't watch the sunset. I can't go to the races. I don't even think I legally exist anymore! I can't get a job, or buy a car, or own a property. I can't do a fucking thing but grieve. And I can't keep watching you look at me like you're sad."

He didn't know what to say to that. He knew everything he was saying was true, but he couldn't stomach it. He'd worked so hard for this, spent so much time. He thought he'd finally done something right.

"I love you, Klaus. But I can't do this. I don't even think I'm going to survive much longer." They were both crying now.

"So what am I supposed to do?" He asked. "Just leave you here? Stay with you until you keel over and die again?" Dave stepped toward him slowly. He was still covered in the black slime, but they were both too emotionally distraught to really care. He laid his filthy hand across his shoulder.

"Don't worry about me," he spoke in a hushed, calming tone. "I'm not really me. You know that, right?" Klaus nodded solemnly. "Remember what we said. You have to stay alive, even if it means you have to leave me here. I love you."

"I can't."

"I love you." He buried his curly hair into his sticky chest and sobbed, though no tears or noise would come. He was too tired to fight. He was too exhausted to even function, now.

"I love you too," he whispered.

"Then go." He kissed him forcefully, spreading the awful goo between their two faces. It was disgusting, tragic, and beautiful all at once. Klaus thought it was perfect, in a sick sort of way. They pulled apart. 

"In the morning."

**EPILOGUE**

The day-long journey from Dallas back to New York had been filled with silence and reflection. After such a harrowing experience, he would normally have gone straight downtown to get his fix before even stopping home. But as Texas grew farther and farther away, it occurred to him that it wasn't only Dave's voice that had stopped appearing in his head when he performed the ritual. He wondered if everyone had been right all along. Maybe it was true that keeping them at bay had only made them more desperate. He began to realise that everything in his life was suffering from this principle. He'd been ignoring so many issues for so long, hoping one day they'd blow over or he'd go under. The pain and effort of dealing with it didn't seem worth having it be over and dealt with. Now, as he observed the various bruises, cuts, burns and scars he'd accumulated over the past month or so, he found them oddly comforting. For all his pain and all his suffering, he still had something to show for it. After all of it, he was still alive.

When he knocked on the front door of the manor, he was a bit surprised to see Five standing behind it. He was a bit like him in his tendency to disappear for long stretches of time. It was unusual for them to both be present under one roof.

"Jesus," he remarked. "Have a good bender?"

"Just terrific," Klaus replied as he stepped into the house, happy to settle so quickly into comfortable banter. "You know, you should really try Sri Lankan hashish if you haven't already." His brother scoffed in mock annoyance, though he could see the warmth in his face anyway.

From another room, he heard the sound of someone descending the stairs and taking fast, tiny steps; a pattern he recognised as Vanya's. Sure enough,she entered the room moments later looking surprised to see him.

"When did you get back?" There was worry in her eyes- she was trying to figure out if he was high.

"Just got in. Wanna help me unpack?" Vanya seemed genuinely a bit shocked by the fact that he didn't seem to be. He couldn't even try to blame her. They seemed to have an unspoken understanding between them, a non-verbal language they built up a long long time ago and just never forgot. He knew she would ask him what happened, and she knew he would tell her. She had been the only one with even a slight idea where he'd been. In all honesty, he was looking forward to being able to unload.

"Sure, just a minute," she said, making her way over toward the kitchen. "Let me put the kettle on, first."

"I'll join you, I have to sit down anyway." He started off behind her, leaving Five to his own devices in the foyer.

He dropped himself down into a wooden kitchen chair and listened to the easy sound of running water. He closed his eyes, exhausted from the last few days.

He felt his sister press a soft his into the top of his head, as she placed an apple on the table in front of him.

"Welcome home". 

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this harrowing, chaotic, and perhaps confusing tale. Leave a review if you liked it or if you didn't! I thrive off attention!
> 
> p.s. shameless self plug but this story was a commission and I am still taking requests! dm me on here or on tumblr @ thecroutonshack


End file.
